The Remaining Third
by The Idle Raspberry
Summary: 'We shouldn't use this word. Related. It sounds wrong.' 'What do you want me to say then, Mycroft? We share the same blood 'cause our dad shagged my mum while he was married to yours' 'Watch your language' 'Watch yours! We're related, you, me, HIM, face it once and for all! And HE accepted it just fine' POST REICHENBACH. What if instead of 2 Holmes, there'd always been a 3rd...?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, hello, hellooooo...**

**So this is um... Well my fic about BBC Sherlock. Just a reminder that I don't own the series (of course) and that english is not my first language, so if there are any mistakes, well feel free to tell me, and I'll correct them! **

**Also, if you don't like what I write, or the storyline I imagined... It's not necessary to insult my work via reviews. Just close you internet browser. **

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

'You might want to take these headphones off, miss, you're missing the view.'

I open my eyes. The man seating across from me in the wagon is smiling rather kindly. I smirk quietly, and close my eyes again.

'I'm good, thanks. I've already seen how it looks.'

I can't see him, but he doesn't add anything else. Good. I literally _loath _small talk. And people really tend to use small talk when they're alone facing a weird-looking kid in a train. I don't get why: if you ask me, I don't look like a person who's good at social interactions. I guess it's hereditary. Or so they told me back at school. _School_. I sigh loudly, and try to focus on the music that comes through my purple headphones.

_Dooooon't you forgeeeet abouuuuut meeee_

_Don't, don't, don't, dooooooon't you forgeeeeeet abouuuuuut meeeee_

Ugh. Simple Minds. Nice. Listening to music always calms me down a bit. I mean, it's not that I'm an aggressive person, but... I just can't bear pointless, annoying things. Like school, for instance. With teachers and all. People who think they're better than you because they're the ones having a diploma. Ha ha. Jerks. And I won't even mention the students – oh God, _the students_ – who literally represent what the world would've been if monkeys had taken over the power. Although the average 15-year-old kid isn't quite as intelligent as Caesar in Planet of the Apes.

'Dear passengers, we'll be arriving in Paddington Station in a few minutes. Don't forget your belongings, and please get ready to exit on the left side, thank you.'

I open my eyes again. My fellow traveler is looking breathlessly at the window, like if London was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. His jaw is half opened, and his eyes are bewildered. I find myself smiling. He's funny. Some people are funny. Innocent people with big baby blue eyes are funny. He's looking at the city of my nightmares like a six-year-old would look at a particularly big ice cream. I like the way he acts, how childish he's behaving. He's not pretending to be a responsible adult, looking carelessly at the view because there are more important things, like work and everything, no. He's... Natural. And that's something missing in our society. Hypocrites are kings, truth is overrated.

The man notices my glare, and he suddenly looks at his feet.

'Sorry. You must find me a little ridiculous, don't you?'

'Why would I?'

'It's just... It's my first time in London, ever. I-I've never left my old village, and now here I am, in the capital of England, where I've just been offered a job... It seems so huge, for a boy from the countryside, you see! So forgive me, if I'm being a little ecstatic.'

'No it's... It's fine, actually. I understand. I was like you when I first came here.'

He smiles gently at me. He looks quite young – twenty-two or so, judging by his short beard and the almost undetectable trace of acne on his forehead – and his accent indicates me that he must also have travelled all the way from Wales to come here. Though he is a bit chubby, he has the skin-tan of someone who's been living in the countryside, breathing fresh air all his life, and the healthiness of a beloved kid, raised among a very caring family. Lucky man.

'Um... It's not your first time here, then.'

'No. But I don't know London really well.'

'So you don't live here, do you?'

'I guess you could say that I'm from the countryside as well.'

'Oh. And... Are you coming here on holidays, if-if you don't mind my asking...?'

Hmm. I stare at his bright eyes. He's not talking for nothing. He's actually interested in my answer. I decide that I like him, and I start explaining.

'No, not exactly. I'm here to see an old...'

How should I even call _him_? He's no more family to me than this man is.

'… An old acquaintance.'

'Oh. You... You're rather serious for a person of your age.'

'No, I just don't see the point in giggling for anything that happens to me, because – believe me – it's not always as funny as it might look.'

'Ah. I see.'

_No you don't_, I want to say out loud. I don't, of course, because he's done nothing to upset me. So I just give him a nice look, and stand up to get my suitcase, because the train has slowed down. The man does the same, and after hesitating, he even helps me out with my luggage. He's one of a kind, for sure. We both walk towards the left exit doors, and wait for the train to stop moving completely. I notice that his fingers are nervously scratching the top of his suitcase. I look up to his face: he's biting his lower lip, and his eyebrows are frowned.

'Is something bothering you?'

'What?'

'You look rather stressed out. And besides, you've got sweat on your forehead.'

His hand immediately reaches out for his forehead. It's not true, of course, but it's easier than telling him how I noticed his anxiety.

'Ah! Um – no it's nothing.'

'Is it?'

'Uh... I guess I'm afraid I'll get lost in London's streets, but you know, it um... It's silly, really, I mean I've got my map and all... But I can't find the street where my hotel is.'

'Wait.'

I take his so-called map from his hands. It's all wrecked and torn, but I manage to decipher a few street names: Montague Street, Torrington Square... The Senate House? I sigh, and look back at the man. Poor thing.

'This is rubbish.'

'Wh-'

'No, seriously, you only have the Bloomsbury district on this thing. Where did you get it?'

'I uh, I took it from an ad in a newspaper... I though...'

'Well you think wrong. Tell you what. As soon as you get out of that train, run to the nearest shop and buy a real London map, okay?'

I gently pat his shoulder while giving him his map back. He looks a bit confused. After he thanks me, I put my headphones on again. I'm getting tired of this. But when he turns towards me, I realise that it's not finished yet.

'Hang on.'

I remove my headphones. Please, please no.

'You said you weren't from London, how come you know these locations so well?'

Oh _bravo_. Well done, me.

'I just happen to know which streets are in Bloomsbury.'

'Oh do you?'

'As a matter of fact, yes. And I don't think it's any of your business.'

'Why did you lie to me?'

'Never said I was from London.'

'I know, but you mentioned that you didn't know the city.'

'I don't, I'm just interested in maps! Why do you care, you don't know me, do you?'

'You've got a little Londoner accent.'

'I was born there, and raised by Londoners, doesn't mean I'm one.'

'Where did you grow up then?'

'It's none of your business! For God's sake, why do people talk that much!? I w-'

I suddenly stop talking. He's _grinning_. From ear to ear. Well, this is strange. My blood runs cold, and I almost yell at him when I ask:

'What?'

'Nothing. I just made you talk about yourself for one full minute or so. I bet that's the longest anyone's ever got, uh?'

I remain silent. What, in the name of God, is this man doing? An awkward minute passes. Finally, the train stops. The man picks his luggage up, and opens the door. While taking a deep breath, he starts laughing lightly.

'London pollution, here I come! A bit different from my old place, but it'll do.'

'Who the hell are you?'

'My name's Gary, but you don't really need to know that, do you? After all, it's none of your business.'

I chuckle. He's clever. Far more clever than the rest of the people on that train. We both step out of the wagon, and after he's helped me straightening my suitcase, he takes my hand and shakes it vigourously.

'Well, it's been nice to meet you, miss.'

'Pleasure was all mine, Gary.'

'You won't tell me your name, will you?'

I shook my head. He laughs again, and lets go of my hand.

'Til the next time, then. In case we meet on Capulet Avenue or whatever that street was...'

'Okay, I'll look for you on Montague Street.'

'Montague, that was it! Ugh, never figured out which one was Juliet's side anyway.'

Gary picks his suitcase up once again, waves his right hand softly, and walks towards the exit gate of the station. I smile. Oh, how delightful it is to realise that not everyone's a total idiot in this world. We could really use a few more Garys. His enthusiasm, his candour, the way he's looking forward to life... It's brilliant. Still smiling, I put my headphones back on my ears, and start walking out of Paddington Station. Because I've got something to do, too. And it's not as much fun as Gary's new life.

**XXX**

'Keep the change.'

The cabbie thanks me, and drives off the street I just arrived in. It's in the wealthiest part of London, and you can feel it. All the houses are big, white villas that just smell like money. They all have huge gardens, or terraces, or both. The numbers are written in gold numbers on the porch of each mansion, and it's the same for the names of the residents on each letterbox. I turn around to face the one that interests me: 38. 38 Eaton Square. I already nicknamed the place "Hell". Taking a deep breath, I walk towards the front door. I don't want to knock. I really don't. God only knows what he'll do or say to me. But he's my only chance. My only relative. We don't get along well, but if he kicks me out, I'll have to sleep on the streets or whatever. Worse, I could be forced to go back to my old school. I close my eyes. Okay. I'm ready.

I knock. Four times.

A few steps.

The door opens.

My heart is beating so very fast.

And here he is. Standing in front of me.

'Yes? If it's for charity, I've already given money to your colleagues earlier.'

'You've put on weight, haven't you?'

BAM. My words strike into his mind, and his eyes open wide. His thin, thin lips purse, and he starts to open his mouth... When he understands. I don't know what makes him realise who I am – probably the eyes, though – but I swear he does. He places his hands behind his back, and stares at me.

'You've grown up.'

'That's what children do, you know.'

'Don't start. What are you doing here?'

'Family visit.'

'We don't do family visits.'

'That's right, it's what normal people do. And we're not normal.'

'I thought you were in a boarding school, near Cardiff.'

'Exactly, I _was_.'

Silence. He still stares at me like if he's wondering if I'm real. If I may have grown up, he hasn't really changed. He lost a bit of his light brown hair, and he seems more tired than ever, but all in all he's the same. He's still wearing a very expansive suit – even if we're sunday evening, and that he's at home – and his eyes are as cold as ice. After a few minutes, he sighs lightly.

'Well, I guess you could come in.'

'Thanks, I thought you'd never ask.'

He lets me in without any reluctance. Though I find that weird, I assume it's because we haven't seen each other in a while. He leads me towards the living room, where a comforting fire is burning in the fireplace. I sit in a large vermilion sofa, but he remains on his feet, looking carelessly at the fire cracking. Suddenly, I feel a bit bad. I'm kind of intruding in his life right now, and though I thought that I didn't mind, I realise that it's quite awkward.

'So...'

'So. How's life?'

'Fine... Can you tell me what are you doing here?'

'Well, you just let me in.'

'Don't play the silly one. Why are you in London?'

'I told you. Family visit.'

'You never liked me.'

'False: we never liked each other.'

Silence again.

'Truth is... I needed some fresh air.'

'Oh, so you just came to the most polluted city in the country to breathe a little?'

'Call it what you want...'

He finally sits in a red couch, right in front of me. He cups his chin in his hands, and closes his eyes.

'Mycroft...'

Oh boy. Saying his name is so weird. Hearing it is even worse. He lifts his head a little, open his eyes and look into mine.

'You know why I'm here.'

'I'm afraid I do.'

'You're the only family I have left. You could show a little compassion.'

'I'm sorry for your mother, by the way.'

I nod quietly. Mum died from a lung cancer eleven months ago. All I got from Mycroft was a condolence card.

'He gave me a call, when she died. Said he could come over if I wanted to.'

'You liked him better than me.'

'Yes, but we're related just the same.'

'We shouldn't use this word. _Related_. It sounds wrong.'

'What do you want me to say then? We share the same blood 'cause our dad shagged my mum while he was married to yours?'

'Watch your language!'

'Watch yours! We're related, you, me, him, face it once and for all! And _he_ accepted it just fine!'

'For God's sake, Calista, he is _dead_!'

Ouch. The word hurts. So does my name. No one calls me Calista anymore. It's too weird, too long, too... Foreign. Thanks to my Corsican mum, I have a name that nobody's willing to pronounce. People just say Cal, or Callie. But not him. He hates nicknames. He's too official for nicknames. He's too official for anything anyway.

He seems slightly deranged by my name, too. He exhales uncomfortably, and starts scratching one of the couch's grey cushions. I take a deep breath. Here we go.

'I perfectly got that, thank you. We receive newspapers in Wales too, you know.'

'Then why do you keep talking about him like if he was still there?'

'Because he is.'

'Stop it. Just stop. You can't just say things like that. He's dead and you know it, you just don't want him to be, because you can't bring yourself to believe that your childhood hero is now buried deep in the ground.'

I close my eyes. My hands start to shake a little, but I can manage to control them. My ADHD has never been a problem for me, and it's not going to start now.

'Shut up.'

'Oh well, you hate it when I'm right, don't you?'

'You're wrong.'

'For God's sake, just face it! He's dead, _muerte_, _mort_, _kaput. _Whatlanguage you want me to speak?!'

'So he's not here anymore, yeah?'

'Glad you finally got it.'

'He's dead, not breathing anymore, harmless.'

'That's exactly what I'm t...'

'Then how come you can't even say his name out loud?'

Mycroft's face slowly decomposes itself. Bingo. Before he can actually say anything, I slide off my sofa, and kneel in front of his. I can see on his face that he can feel it as well as I can. My hand reaches out for my hair, and I exhale deeply.

'Listen. The fact that you can't bring yourself to say it... It's not grief. No, it's fear. You're afraid,, because you know he's somewhere out there, that he fooled you, so you won't even pronounce his name, 'cause you don't want to hear how your voice calls him like if he was standing a few meters away. You're afraid of believing what you already know. All this... Coldness, it's not because you're sad, not because of your loss... You just don't want to believe, because it's not rational, is it? There are no proofs, no clues. But you feel it just as well as I do. But there's one difference between you and me: you're a coward, Mycroft Holmes.'

'You don't know what I think. Or feel.'

'Yes I do, you stupid, arrogant, stubborn dork! You might not like it, but we still share the same blood, and therefore the same way of... Thinking.'

'You should really work on your genetic knowledge.'

'Shut up, you know what I mean. It seems that it's hereditary, innit? We are – and always will be – weird, outcast, brainy people. I like to call it the Holmes gene.'

He snorts. Very classy. I know that he's not bothered about my little speech, but he seems quite impressed by me anyway. He sighs again, and scratches his hair.

'You... Are so much like him. Always looking to have the last word.'

'Told you. Genetic.'

'You know what? It's almost ten o'clock, and I don't think I can have any of your... Reflections until tomorrow.'

My heart starts beating slightly faster. Does he...?

'You mean I can stay?'

'Well, you took a train from Wales just to come here and tell me that our brother isn't quite as dead as he seems to be, I assume you're tired. I'll show you a spare room upstairs, if you promise not to thank me too much. You know I hate soppy people.'

'Do you know who you're talking to?'

He grins lightly. When we both stand up, I don't even say thank you. I just nod my head a little, and follow him upstairs. But when we arrive in front of a wooden door, he suddenly stops, and turns towards me.

'As for the cowardice, I believe I can show you that a name doesn't scare me as much as you seem to think...'

He looks over the banister, and smirks when he shouts at the empty house:

'Sherlock Holmes.'

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**There you go! :3 I hope it was worth it for now, I'm sorry that I Cal's character is still a bit vague, but I felt like I had to stop this chapter here. Don't ask me why...**

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed :)**

**XXX**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi everyone!**

**So first, thank you so much for the reviews, they made my day! :D I'm happy that you guys liked what I wrote, and I hope you'll continue to read it!**

**So, a few informations about how I'm working: I have shitloads of homework, so I'll only update the fic on sundays :( I'm so sorry, but unfortunately school's gone MAD in the last few weeks...**

**Anyway, hope you enjoy my second chapter (the real story's going to start around the third one, so it might be a bit boring .) **

**Thanks again for all your kind words, I really appreciate it :)**

* * *

When I wake up the next morning, I'm a bit confused. I'm lying in a bed far to large for me, with fluffy cushions and very sweet drapes. Everything is bright and white, and my eyes can't quite see further than the end of my bed for a few seconds. When I realise where I am, my hand immediately reaches out for my phone, which I have kept under my pillow. Whew. It's still there. I roll up in the bed, and turn it on while looking at my temporary bedroom: it's probably one of the most spacious rooms I've ever seen. The walls are painted in white, with tiny light grey patterns of crowns or whatever. The unique window is twice as big as the wooden door, and the grey curtains don't really stop the sunlight from coming in. Apart from the bed, there are only three other things in the room: a wooden wardrobe, a huge mirror, and a white sofa that looks quite comfortable. Everything is painted in white, actually. I'm a little surprised by this, because my half-brother isn't really the bright type of person and I thought I would sleep in a creepy black or purple room, but it's a real relief.

A beep indicates me that my phone is awake as well. We're the Monday, the 21st of October, I've got eighteen missed calls and four messages. Oh great. I decide start with the messages: the first two are from Janis, who was what I could probably consider as my best friend back in Wales. She sounds anxious, and she asks me to call her back as soon as I can. I feel a bit guilty: I left school without a word to anyone, and she's quite the protective type. She must be so very worried. I decide that I'll send her a text later, and I listen to the two other messages. One is from my phone operator, informing me that I've only got twelve pounds left on my SIM card, the other is some random bloke who just says something like "_Hey Jeff, I was wond... Oh fuck it, wrong number!_" and hangs up. I find myself breathing again: it looks like almost no one noticed that I left yet... It's normal, though, the autumn holidays just started, and many kids go back home during this time. I just hope that Janis isn't going to ask to everyone where I went.

I shake my head. Why am I even bothering?! I put my phone on the side of the bed, and I get up to open the curtains. A bright, warm sun is shining up in the sky, which is quite rare for London, and Mycroft's garden is all green and beautiful. Smiling, I get out of the room, still wearing my pyjamas (an oversized Pink Floyd tee-shirt and shorts), and I run down the stairs, softly humming a song from the Beatles. When I come in the kitchen, my brother is already there, wearing one of his boring and official suits, and drinking a cup of tea in front of the window.

'Hey', I say.

'Good morning. Or shall I say good afternoon.'

'Oh.'

'Mmh. Looks like _someone_ slept well.'

'Come on, one o'clock isn't that late. I can do better than that, believe me. Shouldn't you be at work by the way?'

'I came back for lunch, I thought I could show you the house.'

'That's very kind of you.'

'Well, I don't want you to mess up with my stuff, okay?'

I frown. Alright, he's still the same old schmuck he was last time I saw him. I sigh loudly, and reach out for the fridge. I grab a bottle of milk and a pear, then a few toasts from the bread box next to the microwave, and sit on a stool near Mycroft. He drinks his tea up, and stares at me.

'So. Before I show you around, you have to tell me everything.'

'Everything?'

'Let's start with how did you get here?'

'By train.'

'I know, but with what money?'

'I could've gotten here earlier, as soon as I read the... Bad new in the papers, but I had to save pocket money first, for my train ticket, yeah? So I waited.'

'Does your school know you came here?'

'Autumn break just started, it's alright, don't worry. They have plenty of students who go back home at this time of the year.'

He lightly shakes his head, but doesn't say a thing. I know that it's as hard for me as it is for him to even consider that we're from the same family. I don't like calling this place "home", but it's better than telling him the truth. God knows how he'll react if he finds out that I escaped from my boarding school.

'How are you going to get back there? Do you have some money left?'

'Yep. But I'm not going back until the end of the break.'

'What, do you intend to stay in my guest room for the rest of your holiday?'

'No, I intend to find out how our brother faked his suicide, and then I'll move to his flat, 'cause I'm pretty sure he'll be happier to let me sleep on his couch that you'll ever be.'

Mycroft sighs, and puts his cup back in his saucer.

'I'm not even going to argue with that, alright? But if he is, as you say, alive and well... How do you think you're going to find him?'

'Ah, that's an easy one.'

'Oh really?'

'Course. You'll help me.'

'Says who?'

'Says me, and you don't want to mess with an underage genius, do you?'

'Calista...'

'Don't start. Please don't. Listen, I'm not asking you to believe, yeah? You can continue to pretend he's dead, it's up to you. But can you at least help me with one tiny little thing?'

We're face to face. I look at the few wrinkles that started to appear on his forehead and cheeks, at his eyes – which seem less cold than yesterday – and at his light brown hair, that are of the very same colour as mine. Apart from that detail, no one could say we're related. He's as tall as I'm short. His face says "official" while mine just screams "mess". And I won't even mention our clothes. When I think about it, this is maybe the first time that I really compare myself to Mycroft, and I suddenly realise how different we are. We're like chalk and cheese. Finally, he exhales deeply, and claps his hands.

'Okay, time to show you the house. Clean up your breakfast, and we'll start with the first floor. Then I'll have to go back to work, and you keep yourself busy while I'm away. Tonight, when I come back, we'll discuss about the... Thing you need my help for. Are we good?'

I manage to smile. It's better than nothing.

'Sounds pretty reasonable.'

'I thought so too. Now hurry up. I haven't got all morning.'

XXX

_One, two, three, take my hand and come with me,_

_Because you look so fine, and I wanna make you mine!_

The guitar part bursts out of Mycroft's super speakers. I shriek, and lower the volume a little: I can't believe he's got this kind of thing in _his house_! Though he surely uses these to listen to Vivaldi or Bach, I didn't imagine my brother as a music person. I mean, he went in college in some private Welsh university next to my own school, and I know that people there tend to be well-educated artistically: I've been learning to play the piano since I was six. My music teacher, an old Scottish woman who was very fond of Mozart, told me she'd never met a student as talented as me, apart from my brothers. But I can see from the dust covering the big black piano in the living-room that Mycroft abandoned arpeggios and scales a long time ago. After I turn the speakers off, I walk towards it, and let my fingers run on the ivory keys. Suddenly, I'm flooded by memories. A warm summer afternoon. My fingers, way too little to reach all the keys. The sound of a violin. Blue eyes, kindly looking at the efforts I was making.

I shake my head, and bite my lip. Tears are threatening to come out of my eyes, but I won't let them. I'm not a cryer. Never was. Never will be. I guess that growing up in a boarding school has advantages, I'm tougher than the majority of the kids of my age. It's a matter of complete indifference to me: I'd rather be heartless than fragile.

Without really thinking, I sit at the piano. My fingers automatically press the keys. I don't need any music sheet, I know this one by heart. It's from the only DVD I had back in Wales. After the intro, I start to sing softly:

_La lune trop blême pose un diadème sur tes cheveux roux,_

_La lune trop rousse de gloire éclabousse ta jupe en plein trou..._

Thanks to my double nationality, I can almost speak French without an accent. I still have issues on the "r", though.

_La lune trop pale caresse l'opale de tes yeux blasés,_

_Princesse de la rue, soit la bienvenue dans mon coeur brisé..._

As I move on to the English part, I look over my shoulder to check the time on the old-fashioned clock hanged on the wall. It's almost eight o'clock. After showing me the things I could touch and the ones I couldn't, Mycroft went back to his office, or wherever he's working, and said he'd come home around dinnertime. He shouldn't be long, but from what I understood he's up to one's eyeballs with a super secret thingy, so I don't expect him to be on time. But then again, it's Mycroft, and God knows how he hates to be late.

I continue to sing and play. I find myself enjoying it. It's quite relaxing, and the living-room is so big that the sound of the piano comes out very beautifully. And besides, it's probably the most interesting thing I've done today. Since my brother left, I took a shower, got dressed, read the end of 1984, took a nap, ate a marmite toast, took a walk in the garden, and scared myself off while trying Mycroft's speakers. So I guess that playing the piano helped me at least to do something concrete.

When I finish _La __Complainte__ de la Butte_, I switch to an old rock'nd roll song from the Turtles. It's amazing how I remember things I like, really. You'll never see me play an aria from Mozart by heart, I tell you!

_You've got a thing about you, I just can't live without you,_

_I really want you, Elenore, near me..._

_Your looks intoxicate me, even though your folks hate me,_

_There's no one like you, Elenore, really!_

'It's nice.'

I scream, and turn around quickly: Mycroft's standing in front of me, a small and satisfied smile on his face. I exhale deeply.

'Damn it, Mycroft! You scared my pants off!'

'Sorry. Didn't you hear me open the door?'

'Obviously not, you idiot!'

'Oh, don't get insulting, Calista.'

I sigh loudly. Here we go again. I _hate_ it when he says my name. My brother comes towards me, and randomly presses one of the black keys.

'So you've tried my piano. You're a good musician, you know.'

'That's on behalf of heredity.'

'How were your grades in science class, again?'

'Oh shut up, it's a _theory_. The Holmes theory.'

'Yes, most amusing. What were you playing?'

'Some random rock. You wouldn't recognise it.'

He stares intently at me. The way I quickly answer his questions, the impatient expression on my face: he knows what I'm waiting for. His smile disappears, and he removes his hand from the piano.

'Alright. You must be hungry.'

'I'm not.'

'Oh.'

'Yeah. Are you?'

'Well, I had a late tea... So I guess I can wait.'

Silence. We stare into each other's eyes. I gulp. He blinks. And, after what seems to be two centuries, he finally says it.

'Right. Tell me.'

My heart starts beating faster. Okay. Here I am, this is it. This is the reason I came to him. Because he's the only one who can help me. I take a deep breath, and lean onto the piano.

'I need to see someone.'

'Who, and why?'

'I've got questions.'

'Okay, well, maybe I can answer them...'

'Nah, not you.'

'Why? It-it's about his death, isn't it?'

'Yes. And you just proved my point by lowering your voice and asking for confirmation. You can't answer my questions. I don't know yet, but there's something weird with you, Mycroft Holmes. I can't tell if you're just afraid that your little brother might've fooled you, or if you actually know something...'

'I said I didn't want to argue about your... Deductions. Let's not go there.'

'Fine. But you're being nervous again.'

'Do you want me to help you or not?!'

'Right, okay, I'll shut up!'

'Who is this person you want to see?'

'I don't _want_ to, I _need_ to.'

'Whatever. Who is he, or she?'

'Oh, don't play the silly one, you perfectly know who I'm talking about.'

He remains quiet for a minute or two. His eyebrows are frowned, and his fingers started scratching his left knee. Anxiety, anxiety, always anxiety. It's very weird, though, the fact that I can tell what he's thinking just by looking at him. We share the same blood. We both know how to hide our emotions and feelings, don't we? So why on earth can I read him like an open book?

'He's away.'

'For how long?'

'I don't know. He's staying at his sister's, he's been there two weeks already.'

'Why did he go there? I mean, he has a place to stay anyway, don't you pay his rent?'

He raises his eyebrows super high. Oh, piss it. I sigh, and look down when I tell him:

'I might've looked into your um... Your bills and stuff.'

'What?!'

'And your mail. Sorry. Couldn't help it. Curiosity won.'

'I told you not to go in my room, why did-'

'Oh for Christ sake's, Mycroft, why did you even _bother_ to tell me things, you know I don't listen to you anyway! Telling me that something's forbidden is the best way to make me do it. You knew I was gonna go into that room.'

'It was _locked_!'

'Duh, like if _that _could've stopped me.'

He buries his face in his hands. I exhale deeply, and lean back against the piano. I completely, beautifully fucked up. I'm such an idiot sometimes, I can't even believe it. Showing off will never be a good thing, I get that. Worst thing is, I can't control myself, I have to show what I know to everyone all the time. Being an arse is a full-time job, I tell you. Anyway, I seriously doubt that Mycroft will help me now. Why would he? Family obligation? Duh. We're both continually doing efforts not to jump at each other's throats, and even if the brother/sister thing is working so far I know that he can't get over the fact that I'm part of his family. The great and virtuous Holmes! Sherlock already made our name a disgrace after the whole fake genius story, so Mycroft doesn't need an illegitimate sister as well, does he?

'Okay.'

I turn towards him. He looks so tired and prematurely old, it's pitiful. It's like he never laughs, or smile, or think of something nice. Or like he never had a childhood. I'm pretty sure that he came out of the womb wearing a suit and reading the _Times_.

'Listen to me. I give you one more chance, only one. I'll help you, but you have to promise you won't go where I forbid you to. Ever.'

'Cross my heart and hope to die.'

'Right.'

'I'm sorry, you know. I really am.'

'Apologies accepted. What... What did you find when you nosed into my documents?'

'Oh not much. How was Seoul?'

For a second, he looks surprised, but he quickly puts a neutral face on.

'Fine, thank you...'

'I've never been to Korea. Don't like the idea of eating dogs and stuff. Anyway, between your bills from the Seoul Airport Starbucks and you correspondence with the prime minister of Norway, I didn't find anything interesting except _that_.'

I pluck the paper out of my pocket. He takes it, and quickly reads it while asking:

'So?'

'So what?'

'There is nothing written on that except the amount of money I give to pay the rent of a flat in London. How did you know it was _his_?'

'Easy. I looked at the dates: you started paying for this flat two months and a half ago. There's no such thing as coincidence, and I recall that Sherlock ''died'' two months and a half ago as well, so I found that weird. Besides, why would you pay for another place than yours? It's certainly not a house in the countryside, because Baker Street in right in the city centre – I checked – and ''221B'' means that it's not a house, it's a flat. So, a flat, okay, bit strange, innit? Well, I noticed that they sent the letter to Mr Mycroft Holmes, on behalf or Dr J. W. Initials, no full name, nothing. So it's someone who has obviously had some trouble with the press, and they don't want his name to appear on a paper which can be lost, sent to the wrong address or read by anyone. But it's a doctor, and there aren't _that_ many famous doctors in the world, I can tell. And as Sherlock's my brother and that we send e-mails to each other and sometimes even talk on the phone, I know that he got a flatmate quite recently, who happens to be an army doctor, and, what a surprise, is called John Watson. Doctor John Watson, living in 221B Baker Street, who shared a flat with my brother because he couldn't afford a place to live on his own. Now that Sherlock is not here anymore, he obviously needs some financial help, and you're it, but you don't want him to know because you know that he thinks he doesn't need any help, and that's why there's a _nota bene_ saying ''appearing as anonymous'' at the bottom of the paper.'

I inhale. God, I haven't talked that fast for _ages_! It feels... Good, actually. Very good indeed. I feel like my brain is going to explode, and it's wonderful. In front of me, Mycroft is speechless. He looks at me for two minutes of so, and finally smiles lightly.

'Goodness, you... You are his miniaturised copy.'

'I'm not _that_ short, you know.'

He laughs. He _laughs_?!

'It's absolutely amazing. For a moment, you just became him, the way you spoke, the way you moved... How did you do that, how could you find all that?'

'I don't find, I deduce. It's taken me ages to do that properly but I am quite happy with the results.'

'That, plus the fact that you are way too big for your boots, it's official: you two are so much alike.'

'Should I take that as a compliment?'

'It's up to you.'

We stare into each other's eyes. He's still smiling, very kindly actually. But I noticed that, if he said I was completely like Sherlock, he hasn't uttered a word about me being a Holmes. Anyway, I can deduce anything I want, I'll still be a motherless unwanted child to him. With a certain talent for playing the piano. Finally, he stands up, and gets out of the room. He comes back a few seconds later, with a small orange notebook.

'Here's John's sister's address in London. You can go there tomorrow if you want to, if you think you can manage to take the underground.'

He points one address with his finger. Harriet Watson, 103 Harris Street. Mycroft closes the notebook. I look up. And find myself smiling. I'm going to talk to Doctor Watson. I'm going to find out what happened to my brother. I'm going to see him again. I impulsively want to hug Mycroft, but I stay still. We're not touchy-feely here. Instead, I just pat his arm.

'Thanks, big brother.'

'You're... Welcome. Now how about you continue to play the piano while I read my mail?'

I nod quietly. Still hasn't said ''sister''. Oh well. I sit at the piano, and Mycroft's voice comes form behind me:

'Do you know any Chopin ballads?'

'Do you know who you're talking to?'

'Oh fine, just go on with your savage music, you uneducated punk.'

* * *

**That's it for this week! See you all next sunday!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi guys!**

**I am sooooo sorry! I know this chapter was supposed to be published _ages_ ago! But see, I was in the Chinese countryside for two weeks (without my laptop, nor internet), and I only came back to Shanghai six days ago. Oh, and by that time, we just started what we call "bac blanc" in French, meaning we have like TONS of exams. So I didn't really had the time to write. And believe me, it's been a real pain in the ****. But I'm back, and unfortunately, I think that my new chapter sucks. Because... Of reasons. Like the lack of time to write. But anyway, read it if you want to, I guess it's worth a try. **

**I'll try to post the next one asap, but I can't promise you anything... Hell, I barely have the time to do my homework right now! And I hope the next chapter'll be better than this, cause I'm quite disappointed with it. I think it's slow. The real plot will be explained in chapter four. That I started to write. A little (yay!). **

**Anyhoo, thanks to those that are sticking up with me, you're awesome :) And thanks for the reviews, it's always very pleasant to get some! **

**See you next time (not next sunday, unfortunately... Stupid exams!)**

* * *

'Excuse me, sir, is Harris Street far from here?'

The dark-haired middle-aged man raises his eyebrows, and puts a pitiful face on. Oh, great.

'No, not that much... But you're going the wrong way.'

'Oh.'

'Just turn around, walk straight ahead for about five minutes, and Harris Street'll be on your right, you can't miss it.'

'Ah, you know, with me, everything's possible... Anyway, thank you very much!'

The man nods kindly, and continues on his way. I sigh. I've never been in this part of the city, I don't recognise anything, nor the streets, nor any famous building. I've been in this stupid boarding school for far too long, I can't even read a London map correctly anymore!

I yawn. My ham and cheese bagel is burning my cold fingers, and I feel like I'm going to sneeze. London's weather is extremely weird: it must be ten degrees lower than it was yesterday! I tighten my scarf's noose, and do as the man said: turn around, and walk. I replay – for the hundredth time - my day so far in my mind. This morning, I was so excited about the perspective of going to the Watson's that I woke up at 7:30, and couldn't go back to bed. Instead, I took a shower, went downstairs, and read half of Stieg Larsson's _Millennium_ before remembering about the piano. It took Mycroft two songs to rush downstairs and start yelling: he hadn't tell me that, on tuesdays, he worked at the Parliament, and only had to got there in the afternoon. So it wasn't my fault.

I almost started a fight, but then I remembered that he only gave me one more chance the night before: I apologised, and after five minutes of a _very boring _lecture, he seemed less pissed off. As soon as he finished his morning tea, I took my pocket money – I had about sixty pounds left – and phone, grabbed my coat and map, and after a billion warnings about London's streets, I finally got out of the house. I headed for London Victoria Station, took the tube for about ten minutes, lost myself three times, and finally found that man who kindly told me that I was completely on the wrong way. I feel stupid. And alienated.

I look to my left: here it is! Harris Street! About five meters further!

'Thank God' I sigh.

I look at my phone, and sigh with relief: it's 10:25. I thought I'd never make it before _midnight_. I really need to work on my London geography. I turn left, and walk into the street. Number 103 is the fourth house on my right. It's a little cottage, squeezed between two similar houses made of red and maroon bricks. As I walk up the small garden, I notice that it's really messy: the grass makes it look like a wild jungle, and the letterbox, painted in red with white dots, is covered in dirt and dust. I stop for a second, and get closer to it. Tons of unopened mail are overflowing from the box's slot. _Tons_. Well now, that's weird. According to Mycroft, John Watson has been at his sister's for at least two weeks, so _someone_ should've collected all the mail for all this time. I run to the porch: no shoes, umbrellas or anything that could prove that someone has actually been living in that house for the last fourteen days. The curtains are closed, and so is the tiny garage door.

This isn't right. I check the number on the front door: 103. As my brother told me. Alright. I take a deep breath. Let's not draw conclusions, and think. Think, think, think. The first thing I can think about is that I better check the house: maybe I've missed something, and someone's actually been in there recently.

Or what if...?

Suddenly, I feel like I'm going to slap myself. Of _course_. Oh, he's clever, he really is. I should've known: Sherlock hadn't chose him randomly. I get around the porch, and discreetly walk up to the first floor window. It's shut. I know it's wrong, but my fingers slide by themselves on the glass, and without really controlling it, I'm already feeling the lock with my hands. Thank God: it's a simple one, probably locked by a chain on the other side. All I need is a hair pin. I ruffle through my curly chestnut – and messy – hair, until I finally reach one metal pin. With a chuckle that I can't keep silent, I put it into the lock, and twist it: the _very_ satisfying 'click' of the window opening makes me smile so much that I feel a little guilty. I'm not supposed to be enjoying this, I know, it's illegal and most certainly wrong. But _God_, how I've missed it!

Silently, I slip myself inside of the house. One quick look around tells me that I ended up in the tiny kitchen, near the oven. After closing the window, I notice a few things: the dishwasher is working, and making awful noises, there are strains of butter on the fridge's doors and, most important of all, today's newspaper is squeezed under a dirty cup of tea and a book by John Green. I smirk. I was right. As often. I slowly walk towards the small living-room, and finally find what – or should I say who – I've been looking for since this morning: a snoring, sandy-haired man, curled up on the only sofa large enough to support the weight of a sleeping person. I find myself smiling. Strange. I thought the first reaction I'd get would be relief. But it's actually pity.

John Watson doesn't look as good as in the newspapers. His hair is longer than in the photographs, and makes him look less military. He's loosen weight, quite a few pounds actually. His white knitted jumper looks almost too big for him. But it's when I look at his face that my heart sinks: he's very pale, and doesn't look as healthy as before, certainly because of the dark circles under his eyelids that make his closed eyes look disproportionate compared to the rest of his face. Wrinkles started to appear on his forehead, and something tells me that they haven't dug his once beaming face for the same reason as the ones on the corner of his eyes. He used to smile. Now I believe he just frowns.

I feel nauseous. I step back a little, and lean against the closest wall: how could he? How could he let him become this? I bite my lower lip, and close my eyes for a second. I want to find him. I really do. And when I do, I'll kick his arse for letting this man down.

My eyes look upon him again. At least he seems quite peaceful and rested when he sleeps.

_HIT THE ROAD, JACK, AND DON'T YOU COME BACK NO MORE, NO MORE, NO MORE, NO MORE!_

_HIT THE ROAD, JACK, AND DON'T YOU COME BACK NO MOOOOOORE!_

Oh crap.

As soon as I reach my pocket with my hand, he jumps off the sofa violently, and a surprised shriek comes out of his mouth. I quickly look at my phone: _Mycroft_. I am seriously going to tear him apart once I get back. Then, I'll probably shoot myself for not putting my stupid mobile on silent mode. I turn it off, and look up: his face is surprised, yet fearless. He looks at my hands, then at my face, and stands up rather quickly.

'Um... What-'

'Okay, I can explain everything, I swear.'

'I hope so, because you just happen to be violating my right to privacy. What in the name of God are you doing here?'

I don't answer right away. Weird. He didn't even ask me who I was, or how I got in. All he wants to know is the purpose of my presence here. Repressing a smile, I say in a very calm and quiet voice:

'I was looking for something.'

'Well I think you're in the wrong house. There's nothing here.'

'That's precisely what you want people to believe, isn't it, by covering your traces, closing the curtains, letting the garden grow wild...'

He takes a moment of reflection. He doesn't even look confused about the fact that I knew he was in there from the beginning. His soft brown eyes are all drab, like if he was tired of everything. And the worst part of it is that he probably is.

'Well, that didn't last long.'

'Oh, you've been here for at least two weeks, if my informations are correct, so I would be quite proud of me, if I were you. You're good at hiding.'

'You're good at entering other people's houses.'

'Well, as you said, most people must think that there's nothing here.'

'But let me guess: you're not most people.'

'I-'

He sighs.

'You're not the first one to tell me this.'

'Oh, I'm not? Well you must have delightful friends, if you want my opinion.'

'I don't really h-'

His voice breaks. He breathes a little, winks a few times, and firmly lays his wide eyes on me.

'Who are you?'

'You tell me.'

'Don't be stupid. I've never seen you in my life.'

'Oh come on, I'm sure you can do better than that...'

I step back. He frowns.

'Okay, let's make a compromise here. You can ask me anything you want, but you have to cooperate, and answer to my own questions. Deal?'

'You've forced my window, I don't know you, and blackmailing is weak.'

'Oh it's not blackmail, believe me, I want answers as much as you want to know who I am. Win-win.'

"Fair enough, I guess.'

He sits back on the couch, and gives me a long look. I lean against the wall again, and take a deep breathe. Most people would've kicked me out, or called the police. But... I smirk: he's not _most people_.

'You start.' I say.

'Fine. Who are you?'

'That's boring. I'm someone you'll quickly get interested in. My turn: for how long has your sister been in Dublin?'

He raises his eyebrows. Ah, finally, he looks surprised!

'Um... T-two weeks, but how did you know?'

'Her mailbox. There were letters – unopened, of course – from a post office in Dublin, with female handwriting on it, saying "from Ms. H. Watson".'

'How come you know I have a sister?'

'Hey, one question at a time. And it's my turn. For how long have you been hiding here?'

'Three weeks. Why would I be interested in what you have to say?'

'Because we share the same wish. Why do people think that you've lived with your sister for only two weeks, when you've actually been squatting here for longer?'

'I don't want company, but I had to reassure them, because they won't stop calling me, and who've you been talking to?!'

'A f... An acquaintance of yours. No one evil, don't worry. Why did you lie?'

He seems destabilised.

'Excuse me?'

'There were at least six letters from Ireland in the mailbox, and the grass in the garden couldn't have grown that much in only two weeks. Your sister's been gone for a while, hasn't she? So why did you lie?'

'Because...'

He laughs. But not happily at all. And when he looks up to me, I suddenly feel cold.

'Because, have you ever lost someone? Someone special?'

My heart misses a beat. I gulp: he goes on.

'Someone that left you with nothing, except a few memories, and an awful lot of pain? Someone whose loss dug a deep, bloody hole in you chest, that makes you suffer every single day? Someone who made you believe you were worth something, that life could be better than it seemed to be? Have you?'

'I-'

'Because then you would know. You would know why I'm here, instead of walking down the streets of London, on a Tuesday afternoon. You would understand that I can't do anything else, because it hurts, because the wound is still fresh. You would know why I don't want to see other people, who keep telling me that it'll get better with time. Because I know it will, I know someday everything's going to be fine. But here and now, it's not. I may be pathetic, but that's the way I feel, I feel like lying on the couch all day, hiding in an empty house, away from any form of company there can possibly be. All I'm left with is insomnias, a fridge full of food I won't eat, and tiredness. I'm tired, tired of everything. Tired of others telling me that I shouldn't let myself drown, that it's not what... What he would've wanted.'

His voice breaks completely.

'But you know what? They can all go to hell. They won't listen to me, they won't understand, they... I need to deal with this alone.'

'No you don't.'

He raises his head. The astonishment on his face doesn't stop me.

'It won't ease the pain. You think it will, but... Then all you'll be left with will be headaches, more pain, and loneliness. And no one deserves to suffer this much, especially good people like you."

'You don't know anything about me.'

'Believe me, I do. And what I also know is that, yes, life is completely shitty right now, but that's not an excuse for making it worse by blaming others for caring about you. I've... I've learned something quite recently: your entourage can seem awful or overwhelming sometimes, but they... They won't let you down. They won't give up on you like you might.'

Argh. I sound awfully cheesy. But I know I'm right.

'One week ago, I'd never have thought that I'd do what I did two days ago. I'd never have thought that I'll go and seek for help, especially from _this_ person. But I did. And here I am now.'

'What does that have to do with anything?'

'Oh come on, for Christ's sake!'

I step closer. He looks even more confused than before.

'What?'

'Don't you get it?!'

'No, and neither do you. You talk a lot, but you don't really know what it feels like, do you?!'

'Oh, I think I do. Really. Look at my expression, and tell me that I'm lying when I say that I do.'

'How could you?'

'Because we've been though the exact same hell, jeez!'

I might've yelled. But I don't care. I take him by the shoulders, and my voice breaks too when I tell him:

'Look at my eyes. _Look_.'

From the beginning of our conversation, he kept avoiding eye-to-eye contact. And my shaking voice finally makes him look into my eyes.

It takes him about two seconds to notice their colour. And about half a second to make the connection.

And I swear he looks like he's seen a ghost.

'What...'

He pushes me away from him. His face looses the very few colours it had.

'Who the hell are you?'

'My name's Calista Holmes, and believe me, the eyes are not the only thing I share with my brother.'

* * *

**There, you can stop reading this crap, at last. I seriously hope the next one'll be better. Sorry guys.**


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